Bloog Mandrake

The Apocalypse

The full lips
The Apocalyptic hip chicks
in all their empty splendor
wrapping their tiny arms around
an anatomic event.

A ‘relativisation’ to be sure. We’re all hedging our assertions
and imagining eschatological rescue feats. Esquetrology predicts we’ll be dead when Equuleus nips the seventh star of Pegasus.
This has all been clearly indicated in the fairest apocraphalyspal tradition
Mainlining a fresh set of perambulations.

Fuck this apocalypse

Have another.

Your druthers

Drubbers all

Volunteer

Have another from the recesses of guttural responses predating all columns

of molded vain roundness

Forget these artifacts “that still stand”
Have this other
Purely nonfosselized
still not organic nor growing
nonexistant
as far as tell can
see
nonetheless fortuitous
(as given on Mount Supposition)
Sacred ground sans firma
particlesplit.

It’s a glorious!place one doesn’t have to believe in
Your own potential was seen once or infinite
in one form or another
formulizing debt to a cause
Formalizing existence
only to see it all come crashing down.
Well, fuck that apocalypse!
Have yet another.

“Check, please.”

a pocket I Ching
ain’t nuthin but a series
of 64’s and 6 threes
a blurry-eyed cross
between a hotspot on the earth
and a universal first time for everything

but hey! it’s as simple as that hat and flat Rockefeller ring finger
Save your monkeys in a lilac bag of fuck you
and roll

A hat full of feathers and bubble gum and troops
set loose with the Three Pigmen of the Apocaloops

trapped inside marbles

on a sacred playing surface of your choice.